


Sweetheart

by phoenixflight



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: 1930s, Dancing, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Period Typical Attitudes, Pre-Canon, basically just cute and wholesome idk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-09
Updated: 2018-08-09
Packaged: 2019-06-24 10:59:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15629304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phoenixflight/pseuds/phoenixflight
Summary: Bucky tries to teach Steve to dance. It doesn't go exactly as planned.





	Sweetheart

People looked at Steve’s tiny, skinny body, all elbows and knees, and assumed he’d be uncoordinated. But that wasn’t true at all. Anyone who’d played stickball with him knew that he could hit a pitch nine times out of ten. He had an eye for movement, patterns in space just like he had an eye for it on a page.

“C’mon, Stevie, you’d be good at this if you let yourself try.”

Steve crossed his arms, chin jutting stubbornly. In 10th grade Bucky had overheard Maria Espinoza call Steve’s chin “weak” but there was nothing weak about the way he set his jaw. Bucky had accidentally spilled his Coke all over Maria’s school books the next day. “I’ve got two left feet.”

“Just because you never practice. Everyone dances like an elephant when they first start out. It’s fun.” The song on the radio ended and a slower one began, a bluesy rhythm that made Bucky want to sway his hips. Music moved him down to his bones – it was irresistible, always had been. He just wished Steve would loosen up enough to give it a try. “C’mon, this is a slow one. I wanna dance with you Steve.”

Steve looked up at him sharply and Bucky flushed, tongue feeling thick and awkward in his mouth. “I mean, I wanna go dancing with you.” That was hardly better, and he rolled his eyes. “You know what I mean.”

They had been stepping around this... thing between them for months now, ever since last summer. On a sweltering evening when the air felt thick enough to choke on, they had dragged one mattress under the single window in their apartment and lain shirtless side by side. The hot weather had made Steve’s lungs act up, and he’d been wheezing a little. Bucky had put a hand on his chest, just to feel the rise and fall of his breath, to steady Steve and reassure himself. But Steve had covered the hand with his own, and looked up at Bucky with something dark and hungry in his eyes, something familiar. They had jerked each other off, desperate and silent, sweat dripping off them in the sweltering air. The window above them was open, lending only a sluggish breeze. No one could see them in the darkness on the floor under the sill, but Bucky had spent the rest of the week nauseous with dread that someone had heard their barely-audible whimpers and gasps through another open window. It had been ten days before he’d worked himself up to looking Steve in the eye again.

They never talked about it, but it happened again. And again. Sometimes not for a month at a time, sometimes three or four times in a week. Once, memorably, twice in one day. Bucky wished he’d had the excuse of being drunk, but he was stone cold sober both times. Being drunk would blur the edges, make the memories less clear, and Bucky, selfishly wanted to remember every instant. If this was all he ever had of Steve, he wanted it crystal clear. It hurt to think about, but it hurt worse to think about forgetting.

Steve was still staring at him across the sitting room, Ella Fitzgerald crooning on the crackling radio. “Just one dance,” Bucky coaxed.

Whatever Steve heard in his tone made him look away. “Buck... we don’t... I don’t dance.”

“You could if you wanted. You’re good at whatever you put your mind to, Stevie.” Steve snorted. “C’mon. It’s a great way to get girls.”

Eyes snapping back to him, Steve’s expression hardened so suddenly that Bucky drew a startled breath, opening his mouth to apologize. They joked about girls all the time. It wasn’t a big deal. Right? Then Steve said, “Alright.”

“What?” said Bucky.

“I said, alright. That’s what you want, huh? Teach me to dance so I can pick up girls?”

Bucky swallowed. “That’s not...” But Steve was marching toward him, into his space, and suddenly Bucky couldn’t breathe.

Steve put a hand on his hip and held the other up, flexing his fingers meaningfully. “Well?”

Letting out an unsteady breath, Bucky slipped his hands into Steve’s. “On my back. Your other hand, on my back.” The feeling of Steve’s hand slipping around his side made the hairs rise on the back of his neck. His heart was pounding.

The top of Steve’s head came just to his nose. If he leaned in, he could press his lips against Steve’s forehead. He shook himself, settling a hand on Steve’s bony shoulder. “So, you start with the basic step. You can do either six count or eight count.”

“I know the basic. I remember you practicing in the stock room of the grocery. Counting out loud.”

Bucky huffed out a laugh. He’d forgotten that. Having Steve was sometimes like having an extra part of his brain that lived outside his body. The summer he was fifteen, stocking shelves at the Horowitzes’ grocery, the radio in their back room had been the only one he had private access to. Or, private plus Steve, who, until recently, hadn’t counted on matters of privacy. During slow times in the shop he would tune the radio to a swing station and practice the basic steps between the crates and boxes, while Steve did a bad job of not laughing at him.

But apparently Steve had been watching too, because he fell into the lindy basic only a little awkwardly as Bucky counted aloud. “Good, that’s good. Now from the basic you can start any move. Lemme show you a swing out. It’s the same footwork, only in a circle.” Steve gave him a dubious look. Bucky pulled away and demonstrated in the middle of the room, holding his arms up to mimic holding a partner. “Rock step, shuffle-step, five, six, shuffle-step. See, on the first four counts you go kinda around in a circle, and on the last four the lead stays where he is and the follow spins out. Well, not spins. Like, not twirls. Just opens up and finishes with the rock step.”

Steve’s lips quirked. “You sure that was English, pal?”

“C’mon. I’ll show you if you follow for a sec. Easier than explaining. It’s all about momentum anyway.”

Frowning dubiously, Steve took Bucky’s left hand in his right, stepping into the follow position. He fit perfectly into Bucky’s arms, smaller than some of the girls he had danced with, but Bucky could never mistake him for a girl. Pressing a hand to Steve’s back he felt the bones of his spine, the narrowness of his waist. Bucky could never mistake him for anyone but Steve, and couldn’t deny that it made heat pool low in his belly.

Counting aloud again, he used the hand on Steve’s back to guide them in an uneven circle, and then spun Steve out of the close embrace. He stumbled a little and lost the rhythm of the footwork, grimacing. “See? I’m terrible at this.”

“No, try again.” He tugged at Steve’s hand. “What are you, a quitter?”

“Asshole.” But Steve stepped back into his embrace. His shoulders were a little more relaxed. Calling Bucky names always calmed Steve down.

Putting his arms around Steve again, Bucky told himself to focus, and they tried again. On the fourth try, they got through the swing out without losing the rhythm. Giving an excited whoop, Bucky twirled Steve back into his arms on the next count. Startled, Steve stumbled into him, laughing. His whole chest was pressed against Bucky’s, one arm around Bucky’s neck. Steve’s breath was warm and damp against Bucky’s collar as he laughed.

Bucky’s hand was pressed to the small of Steve’s back were his shirt was a little damp with sweat. He could feel the rise and fall of his ribs. It was a cold day and the chill seeped inside, but Steve was warm, vital, against him. Bucky went still.

Glancing up, Steve looked at him and the smile slipped from his face. They stared at one another. Bucky had no idea what was showing in his own expression – his mind was empty of everything except the pulsing desire to clutch Steve closer.

Steve pulled away abruptly, turning his head to the side. “That’s enough. Probably a waste of time anyway.”

“What... Steve...” Bucky realized his mouth was open, and closed it.

“Forget it. This was a stupid idea.” He snorted humorlessly. “A few dance moves isn’t going to make a difference in getting me a girl.”

Bucky swallowed. “You don’t know that.”

It sounded feeble to his own ears. Steve shot him a sour look. “Sure. And I don’t know if the moon is made of cheese but I know I’m never going to get a fucking bite.”

The conversation suddenly felt huge and dangerous, opening like a deep crevasse in the room between them. Steve’s shoulders were hunched up, arms crossed across his chest. “Steve,” Bucky began, feeling the urge to apologize but not knowing what for. “If you don’t want to dance you don’t have to. I just thought it might be more fun for you if you could take a whirl on the floor. Instead of just watching.”

“I don’t want to dance with a girl.” The stubborn set to Steve’s jaw was back, and he wasn’t meeting Bucky’s eyes.

“Then what...?” Bucky trailed off. There was a flush rising on Steve’s cheeks and his eyes were suspiciously bright. “Stevie?”

“Don’t call me that,” Steve snapped.

“Ok, champ. I didn’t mean to upset you.” He always felt so small when Steve was angry at him, especially when he had no idea what he’d done.

Steve huffed an angry laugh. “No, you never do.”

“What the hell’s that mean?”

“You don’t get it, do you?” Steve was still turned away, body hunched defensively. Bucky could only see part of his profile.

“No, who am I, the Great Astoundo? I can’t read your mind.”

Steve muttered something under his breath. The tone was unflattering. He squared his shoulders and Bucky braced himself. “You gotta stop pushing me at girls one minute and grabbing my cock the next.”

All the air slammed out of Bucky’s lungs. “What?” he choked.

“You heard me,” Steve bit out.

“Yeah I _heard_ you...” Bucky swallowed hard, still breathless. Jesus _fuck_. But that was Steve Rogers all over – given half a chance to throw himself headlong into a sticky situation he’d take it. He dropped his voice. “You can’t just say that shit. Someone might hear.”

Steve twitched one shoulder.

Bucky rubbed both hands over his face. He could hear his pulse rushing in his ears. “I’m not... we don’t... we shouldn’t...”

“I _know_ ,” Steve snapped. “You think I don’t know what you think about it? You think it’s not a big deal, you think it’s just letting off steam, just a fun thing to do until we both have steady girls, and I.” His voice cracked. “ _Fuck_ you, Barnes.”

Turning on his heel Steve stomped over to their tiny kitchenette and began banging the dirty dishes in the sink, loud enough to drown out the tinny strains of of _Bei Mir Bist du Shcon_ playing on the radio.

Bucky stared at his back. He felt lightheaded, a little nauseous. A detached part of him was glad that Steve hadn’t stormed out of the apartment, because it was November and pissing slush outside. The pipes wheezed as Steve turned on the water, clattering dishes together. The narrow line of his shoulders was tense under his shirt. Bucky felt as if the walls of the apartment were tightening around him, making it hard to breathe, and wondered if this was what an asthma attack felt like.

He grabbed a pack of Lucky Strikes off the bookshelf and stepped out the door. In the hall he sank down against the wall and lit up. It was too fucking cold to smoke on the fire escape and Steve’s lungs couldn’t handle it in the apartment, but if he ever needed a goddamn cigarette it was now. He breathed deeply, the warm smoke tickling his lungs, and waited for his heartbeat to slow.

Why the hell couldn’t Steve leave well enough alone? They’d both find nice girls to marry someday, live down the street from each other, godfather each other’s kids. What they were doing now would be left behind inevitably. There wasn’t another option. He’d known that forever.

_Not forever_ , a treacherous voice in his head reminded him. Once, when he had been six or seven, his younger sister had announced that the only boy she would marry was Steve, and he’d told her that she couldn’t marry him because _he_ was going to marry Steve. He probably would have forgotten it entirely if their mother, usually difficult to ruffle, hadn’t been so upset.

But that didn’t mean anything. That was just the stupid thought of a child too young to know what marriage was.

Marriage is what you make of it, his mother had said sometimes when his father was drunk. For better or for worse. In sickness or in health.

He thought of dozens, hundreds of hours curled on Steve’s bed when he was too sick to get up. Of Steve standing beside him at his father’s grave, and then a few years later, at Mrs. Rogers’.

Bucky took another drag of smoke, wrapping his arm around his knees and starring at the door to the apartment. Their apartment. He thought about the day they had moved in, Steve wheezing as he carried boxes up the stairs until Bucky had made up an excuse to send him on an errand. Inside, Steve was doing the dishes while the radio played dance tunes and Bucky... For a moment, Bucky let himself imagine going back in there and kissing Steve against the sink. Laying him down on the bed and touching every inch of him slowly, instead of the quick, hidden fumbling they usually did. Falling asleep every night with his arms around Steve.

Pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes, Bucky exhaled a mouthful of smoke and swore viciously.

Down the hall, a door scraped open and white-haired Mrs. Novak poked her head out. “Is that Mr. Barnes?”

“Sorry Mrs. Novak.” She was ninety years old if she was day, almost blind but with remarkable hearing.

“Something wrong, young man?”

“No ma’am.” He tried to make his tone as light as possible, but he’d always been better at lying with his face than his voice.

She clucked her tongue. “If you’ve had a spat with him, for goodness sakes go in and apologize. Sitting here does no one any good.”

“I’m not sure what I’m apologizing for,” Bucky said. The smoke made his throat feel raw and tight, like wanting to cry. “Or, I’m not sure I can apologize. I don’t think I can give him what he wants.”

“None of us gets everything we want,” she said philosophically. “My husband, rest his soul, used to say that you take what God gives freely and don’t begrudge Him what He doesn’t.”

Bucky snorted. He wasn’t sure where he stood on God. His mother had never been religious, and they’d stopped going to mass when his father died. But if God’d had a plan for him and Steve, he was pretty damn sure they’d screwed it up. Either that or else the Church had it dead wrong. Which was a possibility, of course. That thought cheered him up a little. “You’re right, Mrs. Novak,” he said. “I ought to count my blessings.”

“You’re a good boy, Barnes. Now go in and make up with your friend.”

“Yes ma’am.” He sucked hard on the cigarette until the ember burned down almost to his fingertips, and stubbed it out on the sole of his shoe. Pushing himself to his feet, he nodded at Mrs. Novak and squared his shoulders, facing the door.

Steve barely glanced at him when he stepped inside. He was still up to his elbows in soapy water, clean dishes piling up on the counter beside him. Silently, Bucky crossed the room and picked up a clean towel. Steve’s eyes flickered sideways at him as he began to dry and put away the dishes, but he said nothing. They worked shoulder to shoulder until the sink was empty, and then Bucky said, “I’m sorry.”

“Oh?” Wiping his hands on his trousers, Steve leaned on the counter and looked at him. His expression was stubborn – chin lifted, jaw set. “What for?”

“For upsetting you?” It sounded weak to his own ears, and Steve huffed out an exasperated breath, turning sharply away. “No, wait, Steve, wait. Please. I’m sorry. For being stupid and selfish. And... and I don’t know what the hell we’re doing Stevie, but I hate that I hurt you. I.” His voice was hoarse. “I just want to give you everything you want. Everything you deserve.”

Steve wasn’t looking at him, but also wasn’t walking away, so he swallowed and continued, words babbling over each other. “You’re so smart and brave and tough and I wish everyone could see it like I do. You deserve so much, sweetheart.”

“Call me that again.”

“What? Sweetheart?” Bucky’s heart tripped. He hadn’t meant anything by it, it was just something he said sometimes, just another pet name.

Steve turned and met his gaze deliberately. There was a dangerous shine in his eyes, like the look he got just before he took on a guy twice his size in a fist fight. “You say you want to give me what I want? Anything I want?”

Bucky swallowed. He knew, in the flutter of his stomach and the pounding of his heart, what Steve wanted. It was terrifying; it was dangerous. But it was Steve. “Anything.”

“Then say it again.”

Drawing a deep breath, Bucky looked at Steve, the familiar angles of his face, his blue eyes, the defiant set of his mouth and the nervousness underneath. On the radio, Ella Fitzgerald crooned. Outside in the street a siren wailed, and footsteps clomped across the floor upstairs. There was a stone in Bucky’s throat and his tongue felt thick. He opened his mouth but nothing came out.

Steve cocked an eyebrow at him and his expression made Bucky laugh. The moment snapped and suddenly it was easy. Reaching out, he slung an arm around Steve’s shoulders, pulling him close and pressing his cheek against the top of Steve’s head. “C’mere, sweetheart,” he murmured. His heart was still pounding, but Steve shivered against him, and Bucky wrapped his arms around Steve and held on.

**Author's Note:**

> There's a pretty basic swing move called the sweetheart that I realize I should have incorporated but I was basically done with the fic at that point and too lazy to change it! Also I have no idea if the names of moves have changed in the last 80 years. 
> 
> If you like what you see, follow me on tumblr at my main blog [here](http://stillwaterseas.tumblr.com/) or my fandom blog [here](https://brklynboys-headcanons.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Comments are love!


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